


La Tristesse

by TheWiseMansFear



Series: FrUk On [1]
Category: FrUK - Fandom, France/England - Fandom, Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Depression, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-24
Updated: 2017-01-24
Packaged: 2018-09-19 17:19:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9452042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheWiseMansFear/pseuds/TheWiseMansFear
Summary: Francis has fallen into one of his dark moods. Concerned, Mattie calls on the only person he feels can alleviate his father's long stretches of depression.





	1. Wrath of the Maple Leaf

 

      Everyone dealt with their pain differently. Francis chose to smile, to broadcast love where often times there was none. He wore a mask of wine and roses to cover centuries of hurt, but sometimes it wasn't enough. Sometimes, for his sanity's sake, he had to wipe his facade away and spend a few days letting it all out. If he didn't, he'd be as crazy as Ivan and as angry as Arthur.  
      Arthur. Damn him. The thought of the man made him sick in so many ways. Sick because he needed him and sick because many of his wounds had been inflicted by him. It was a twisted thing, their relationship. It was carved with regret and spite, was saturated with blood and tears. So why did he always force a smile for him? For anyone? The only one he should ever smile for was Matthew.  
      The poor boy. He could not proclaim to be a good father. He'd given him away. Turned his back on him. Let him be neglected and made into a ghost by that filthy British pirate. And why? Because he was selfish. Because he had not wanted any witnesses to his deepening depression. Not even his precious Mattie could know what lie behind his second face.  
      It was on days like this that he wanted to die. He was old and tired. Wine didn't dull the ache in his chest anymore. Not even the sounds of his beautiful city could distract him, it's sights only served as a reminder of how unchanging he was, how different everything around him would grow to be again. The future, in his mind, could only bring with it more pain, more promises of bloodshed and death. War. Disease. Hate.  
      He soaked tears up with his sleeve and took a deep breath. As pathetic as it felt to be this way, he couldn't do more than ride it out. There would be an end, though he didn't know when. Already it'd been a week. What a mess he was. His gorgeous hair was thrown atop his head in a sloppy bun and his shirt was rumpled from two days tossing and turning on the couch. His wine was warm in it's glass and his phone was long dead.  
      Though he'd just awoken, he wanted to sleep again. If he couldn't manage it by himself he'd take the pills. It was not a method he preferred as his body had grown accustomed to them and every time now he had to up the dose, but weeping all day was not a prettier alternative. Abandoning his wine glass on the coffee table he sank into the cushions and pulled his blanket up around his shoulders.  
      Joan would be ashamed of him. How weak he'd become. The thought made him cry again and he turned his face into his pillow as if he could hide his shame that way.  
      His agony was interrupted by the annoying chirp of his Skype. He glanced over to the chair where his laptop sat forlornly, Mattie and Kuma plastered on it's screen. The boy must have sensed his distress, that or Gilbert hadn't been able to get through to him on the phone. If he didn't pick up He was certain he'd have someone banging on his door within the next two hours- likely Antonio, and that was not something he needed right now.  
      Quickly he grabbed for the device and wiped at his eyes. "Bonjour." He greeted, letting his hair down as the video loaded. He was lucky the curtain were drawn. Over the fuzzy feed his bloodshot eyes were hidden.  
      Mattie waved and smiled at him. "Hi papa, can you see me?" Canada inquired, speaking in French. Kuma sat beside him looking bored. "Your phone isn't working."  
      "Ah, you know I turn it off when I am with a lady." He cooed, "It's only proper to give her all of your attention, yes?"  
      Matthew's smile fell away. "Why do you always lie to me?"  
      "Me? Lie to you? No, my precious boy, where would you-"  
      "Why're jou speaking in that flibbity-flab?" Gilbert inquired suddenly, appearing behind Matthew. "Yo, Francy-pants, talk so zhat ze awesome me can understand, ja? Why have jou been hiding? You look like shit. Kesesesese~"  
      "Gil, please." Mattie sighed, pushing the Prussian away with a force he usually reserved for hockey. "It's my turn right now, okay?"  
      Gilbert wasn't dissuaded. He jumped into Matthew's lap and leaned into the web-cam. "Yo, Francis, stop with the weepy-weepy. You make mien birdie worry. Ze only one mien birdie should think about is ze awesome me! Got it?"   
      "I don't know what you're talking about, but do remove yourself from-"  
      "Gilbert Beilschmidt do not make me ask you twice." Matthew threatened in his soft tone, throwing Prussia off of him again, resulting in something shattering off screen. Gilbert did not return and Mattie switched back to French. "You're in a mood again, aren't you?"  
      He was horrified. Matthew knew? For how long? He fought the urge to close the computer and flee back to his blankets. "Uh- I'm fine, really."  
      "Have you eaten?"  
      "Well," he eyed the stale baguette on the counter and sighed. "No."  
      "Oh my maple, I'm coming over." The Canadian sighed. "I've had about enough of this."  
      "No, Mattie, really, you can't help. Please don't worry."  
      "Don't worry?!" Kuma jumped as his master's quiet tone raised an octave. "You've been off the grid for a week. You missed a meeting. Did you know that? Unlike me, people notice when you're missing."  
      He'd forgotten about the meeting. "I'll be fine in a few days. I'll charge my phone."  
      Matthew scowled a eerily Arthur-esque scowl. "If you don't text me every four hours, I will show up and bring Gil and Antonio with me. They'll both be drunk. I'm not joking."  
      He would have been proud of his boy if he hadn't been the one being threatened. "Alright, Matthew. I will."  
      "Are you taking me seriously?"  
      "Always."  
      "If you don't shake this soon I _will_ call him."  
      Gilbert chuckled from somewhere in the background. "Kesesesese~ Mien birdie is so hot when he is being fierce. Vhat are jou zaying? It zounds awesome even in zhat girly flibbity-flab."  
      "I've got to go, Papa." Matthew breathed, "But don't think I won't do it."  
      The call ended and Francis fell back into his blankets, but not before he put his phone on the charger.


	2. Rain in Paris

 

 

Sealand was visiting. Arthur wasn't sure he liked it, but he was dealing with it anyway. He didn't try to raise young countries any more. Instead he remained indifferent and hoped they turned out better than Alfred had. Matthew had been neglected and he'd turned into a fine, non-obnoxious country. Clearly his input wasn't necessary.   
      "Let's play a game." Peter pleaded for what was probably the eighty-seventh time that day. "Or go to the park. Or _something_."  
      He glanced up from his tea and scowled. "Go read a book."   
      "Show me the basement!"   
      "Absolutely not."   
      "I was already down there."   
      The Brit raised his voluminous brows and set his cup aside, only know noticing that Peter had his hands behind his back. " _What_ did you do?"   
      "Uh- not sure." Peter confessed. "Read some weird words from a black book. Had a chat with Russia. And then my hands turned blue."   
      Taking a long breath, Arthur counted down from ten and then back up again before responding. "Let me see."   
      Peter held out his hands and Arthur jumped back. "Good god you little idiot! Have you _touched_ anything?"  
"The entire loo is ice." The tiny country explained. "And the guest bedroom and the hall closet. A lot of the kitchen."   
      "You've got something on your face." Arthur hissed, touching his own cheek. "Just there."  
      Peter wiped at the spot and immediately panicked as his body stiffened. "Arthu-"  
      "Not to worry. It'll wear off in a few hours." He grinned, finishing his tea as Sealand froze there on the rug.   
      A few minutes and a lot of quiet reflecting later, the phone rang. He ignored it. He'd already put up with enough at the meeting and he did not intend to- his cell phone rang. Alfred's name lit up across the screen. "No." He said aloud.   
      "Better answer it." Mint bunny said, appearing in his lap.   
      "It's America. It can't possibly be important."  
      "I'll answer it!" A blue fairy chirped, dancing across the touch screen and connecting the call.   
      "Damn it!" Arthur snarled, shooing his friends away. "Get out of here!"  
      "Dude! Iggy! Important message from Canada, bro!" Alfred shouted from the other end of the line. "You there!?"  
      "Yes, I'm here." He sighed in response.   
      "Good! Now listen up!"  
      "For god's sake just tell me."  
      Alfred's voice lowered to a Matthew-like whisper. "It's raining in Paris."   
      There was a moment of silence wherein Arthur massaged the bridge of his nose and did some more counting. He was really trying to watch his blood pressure. "Alfred, I don't have time for your stupid spy games."   
      Alfred sighed heavily. "Man, you are so uncool. I thought you'd totally get the code."   
      "Alfred."  
      "Fine. Mattie called and said he can't get ahold of France."   
      "He's probably with Spain." He huffed, "Why would I care?"  
      "Dude don't be lame. We already called Spain and Romano wouldn't let us talk to him."  
      "His is not my problem."   
      "Come on, bro. Go check on him. You guys are neighbors."   
      "Don't remind me."  
      "Arthur seriously bro, you're being majorly uncool right now."  
      "You're the _hero,_ you go."   
      "I would! But there's this thing I gotta do and it's totally unavoidable."   
      "Goodbye, Alfred."   
      "Whoa! Wai-"   
      He hung up and refused the next two calls. Why should he care if that bloody frog wasn't picking up his phone? Why any one would think he'd be the slightest bit interested in that wine sucking wanker's problems was beyond him. _It's raining in Paris._ What a load of rubbish. Francis was probably just after some attention and he'd be damned before he was the one to give it to him.   
      A blocked number called him and again he refuses it. Could Alfred being more stupid? Even un-bewitching Peter sounded more fun than mopping up Francis' bloody French tears all day. What did he even have to cry about?!  
      As soon as the thought entered his mind he regretted it. Images of bloody battles emerged from the careful mind-folder he'd placed them in. The look on Francis' face as Joan of Arc burned alive. Every wound, every scar, every hateful word.  
      He was suddenly turned off his tea.   
      But it wasn't like he hadn't been hurt either. Arthur had suffered too, many times by France's hand. It was hard not to hold a grudge, even if their bosses were the ones ultimately responsible. He remembered well the smug look on that frog's pretty face the day he took Alfred's side.   
      "He's always been a constant for you." Mint Bunny reminded, climbing up onto his shoulder, rumbling his shirt in the process. "He's always been there."  
      "Yes, and doing what? Tying my shoelaces together, tormenting me with his perversions and making fun of my cooking!"  
      "To be fair, your cooking is awful."  
      " _I_ eat it."  
      "Clearly your tastebuds are not as lively as your imagination."   
      "I'm not in the mood for your lecturing right now M.B." He sighed heavily, resting his head on the back of the couch and closing his eyes. "He's fine. He'll slurp some snails and throw some glitter and he'll be right as rain again."  
      Mint Bunny snuffled in his ear. "Just like you're fine in July?"   
      "It's not my responsibility!" He shouted, brushing M.B. from his perch and scowling so deeply it hurt.   
      "Fluffy bunny is right~" A frighteningly familiar voice statds from behind him. "When you have friends, you take care of them, da?~"   
      Chills ran up his spine. Peter had mentioned something about Russia, hadn't he? Wait- "Y-you can see Mint Bunny?"   
Ivan smiled at him and nodded his confirmation. "Sealand summoned you?"   
      More smiling.   
      He got to his feet slowly as Ivan raised his pipe cheerfully. "You'll check on France, da?"   
      "Just let me get my coat."

 

* * * *

He'd called Matthew on his way over. The boy had directed him to Francis' flat and instructed him to pick up food from the cafe across the street. He did not like taking orders, but deep down he realized he owed the Canadian a few favors after ignoring him for most of his childhood, so he had only argued half-heartedly. With a sigh, he pounded demandingly on Francis' door. "Hey, Frog!" He called, "Let me in!"  
     There was no answer. He pounded twice more  before heaving a sigh and uttering an enchantment to undo the lock. A small _pop_ announced his success and he shook the cold chill from his spine with an indigent wiggle. Magic was tiring and he didn't have time for a nap. He hoped that'd be the last time he'd need use it that day.   
Stepping inside he found the room dark despite being midday. "Francis?" He called into the dreary space. "You here?"   
No response.  
Closing the door behind him he bypassed the living room and sat the food down on the kitchen counter. The roses on the island were wilted. It was unusual for the Frenchman to allow such a thing. Without much thought as to why, he threw them away and poured the water down the sink. As he was setting the vase aside to dry he thought he heard a soft sound- perhaps a soft cough or groan. "Francis?"   
Venturing back into the living room he found a nest of blankets on the sofa. On the coffee table sat a full glass of wine, a closed laptop and France's cellphone. The man was surely here, but where? Perhaps there was reason for Matthew's concern. He tried to ignore the pang of worry in his own chest and went on wondering through the flat. He half expected the other country to jump out from a dark corner at any moment, but he didn't.   
      Finally he came upon the bedroom and knocked fervently. "Come out you bloody git!" He snapped, "You're freaking Canada out and wasting my time!"  
As expected, there was no answer. Seething with irritation he pushed the door open and peered inside. His cheeks heated as his annoyance became a memory. Francis lay in his bed, swathed in his silky red sheets, his pale skin exposed to the air. His pink lips were parted lightly. He wore nothing but his underpants and his tangled bedclothes.   
He closed the door just after realizing he was gawking, mouth agape. Standing there a moment he tried to gather the frantic bits of his mind, but it was hard, as each bloody piece was frolicking here and there in a field of Francis-faced roses. It should have been a sin to be that good looking.   
      With a huff he turned to leave but a frowning green fairy fluttered before his face frantically waving her tiny arms. "Arthur, something is wrong!" She squeaked. "Look again!"   
      Look again? He'd almost been undone the first time! "He's fine. He's just taking a nap." He sighed, brushing hair from his face.  
      Perching stop his head she pulled at his hair like reigns. "Look again! He didn't wake up. Even after all your shouting!"   
      Francis was a rather light sleeper... "Bloody hell." Fine. One more look.  
      The fairy disappeared with a twinkle and a grin and he turned back to the Frenchman's bedroom. This time when he entered he was careful not to let the other country's appearance befuddle him. Soon, all of Francis' sparkles and flowers faded into the background and he saw what truly lie before him.   
      France's chest rose and fell unevenly as he gasped for air and his body was trembling. Arthur was at the bedside before he'd known he'd moved. "Hey! Frog!" He shouted, taking the other man by the shoulders. His skin was cold. "Wake up you bloody wanker."   
      Francis' eyelids flitted open briefly as his shaking hand found the hem of Arthur's shirt. He mumbled something in slurred French that the Brit could only guess at. Something like: _let me sleep._  
     This was not normal. "What's the matter with you?" That's when he glanced across the bed and spotted the bottle of pills on the nightstand. "Bloody idiot! How many did you take?!"  
     Tears began to seep from the corner of Francis' eyes. "Je suis fatigué , Angleterre."   
     "We're all bloody tired you git!" He raged, shaking the man in his grasp as if his body wasn't trembling enough. "What are you pouting about anyway!?"   
Francis didn't respond, simply went lax and continued gasping. Arthur cursed in every language he knew and pulled the man upright, forcing his bare feet onto the floor. He allowed the man to lean against him, resting his head on his shoulder. Air seemed to enter his lungs easier this way. "Est-ce mieux , grenouille?" He found himself whispering despite Francis' consistent degradation of his spoken French.   
      More tears wet his shoulder and he sighed. What in the world had he gotten himself into? If Matthew were to find out that his father had overdosed on sleeping pills the boy would lose it. Alfred would never shut up about it. The whole world would find out that France was depressed. Ten minutes ago he would have laughed at the thought but now it seemed disgusting. He'd never let anyone know and he told himself it was because no one else deserved to see Francis as miserable as this but him- but in his heart there lay a deeper reason. And it was probably the only thing he'd ever refused to believe in.   
      "Arthur..." The man wept into his shirt collar. "Pars s'il te plait."   
      There was no way he was leaving and no way he was going to analyze the why of it. "Silencieux. Je reste."   
      More tears. "Ne faites pas cela. Ça fait mal."  
       _Don't do this. It hurts._ What hurt? Arthur didn't understand. Pulling Francis away from him he tried to catch a glimpse of those sky blue eyes. "Francis?"  
     "Non _."_

      "What hurts?" He snapped, "Wake up and spit it out. Do you need a hospital?"  
      "Non!"   
      "Then what hurts?"   
      "Laisse-moi!"  
      "I'm not bloody leaving so just tell me what the hell your problem is!"  
      Francis struggled to look up at him. "Vous me aimes seulement dans mes rêves..."   
      _You only love me in my dreams._ The words made him sick to hear. His heart fell into his feet and his cheeks went cold. He pulled the frenchman's trembling form back into his arms and found himself rubbing soothing circles on his back as he gasped and sobbed.   
      Russia's pipe would have been less painful.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonjour~ I'm moving this from my wattpad along with all the other Hetalia fun I've written over there. Standby. This and the sequel are complete. No fear of mysteriously vanishing author here!
> 
> Also, I use Google translate. Fight me.


	3. Pansy-Ass Sulk Festival

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, I know the tabs are atrocious. I apologize. Forgive the wonkiness. I can't figure out how to get them to do my bidding. 
> 
> And these: ~~~ I use for POV switch to avoid confusing when I portray more than one occur in the same chapter.
> 
> There's also a small anchor symbol beside some of my paragraphs that I have no clue as to how they're removed. *shrugs* Perhaps they are simply weighed down by feelings. ;) *Romano threatens to cash me ousside for bad puns* *flees*

      His alarm was screaming, and so was his head. He felt warm sunlight spilling in across his chest and forced his eyes open. They were sore from crying and his lids were still leaden from the drugs. He had to go to the meeting today. If he missed again Mattie would definitely not let him off easily. Unfortunately, he was still tired. Acting charming and looking beautiful was going to be a real challenge.   
      Quieting his alarm with an ungraceful _whack_ he lurched from the mattress and swayed as his head spun. "Merde..." He grumbled, making his way to his bathroom like a drunk. He'd have to take a cab. There was no way he could drive as drowsy as he still was. But then, maybe he'd wake up a bit after a shower.   
He cringed as he looked into the mirror of his medicine cabinet. His hair was wild and his blue eyes were a dull gray. Beneath them hung dark stains as if he hadn't been sleeping enough and his usually well-trimmed beard had grown thick and sloppy. Also, he smelled like a two-week old plate of escargot.   
      Twenty minutes later he'd completed the three S's and had dressed as fashionably as he always did, though he longed for his sweatpants with as much longing as any Frenchmen could muster. With a weary sigh, he headed for the kitchen for water. His mouth was unbelievable dry, as if he'd been partying with Gil and Tony rather than sleeping.   
      The kitchen tile was cool on his bare feet. The chill didn't shake the fatigue though and the water he forced down his throat made him cringe. As thirsty as he was he had no want to drink and he knew by the shaking of his hands that he needed to eat. The thought of choking down food at that moment was almost as bad as having to get out of bed at all.  What was wrong with him? He hated himself for being this way.   
      Plucking a cigarette from the carton by the microwave he headed out onto the balcony in hopes that the view of his beautiful city would ease some of his malcontent. Pushing his damp hair from his face as he lit his habit and stepped out. The breeze brought with it the smell of fresh baked pastries and the neighbors windowsill garden. He took a long drag and watched a cat dance across the opposite rooftop.   
      "It's about time you got your ass up, you damn bloody frog."   
      He choked on the smoke in his lungs and coughed until hie felt faint. There was Arthur, sitting cross-legged on the patio chair, tea in hand looking as if he belonged there. "Angleterre? What are you doing here?"  
      The Brit scowled up at him with those eyes that always took his breath away. He was only lucky in this instance that he'd already been choking. "You don't remember?" Arthur asked, his eyebrows coming together as his frown deepened.   
      "Non."  
      "I see." Setting his cup aside, Arthur looked away from him with an oddly soft expression.   
      "Arthur? What happened?"  
      "Matthew sent me to check on you."  
      "I didn't hear you knocking."   
      "No, well you wouldn't have, would you?" Arthur rose and shoved something into his chest. "It's one thing to be a totally obnoxious, rose-huffing, wine-guzzling ninny, but this is an entirely new level of stupid."   
      As Arthur slipped past him back inside he looked down to find his pill bottle in his hand. He went after the other nation immediately. "You had no right poking around in my room." He hissed vehemently, his infuriation spurred by fear and shame. "Zis is a misunderstanding. I don't even use zose any more."   
     "Francis," Arthur didn't turn around as he spoke. "I've been here since last night."   
     Ashes fell forgotten onto the carpet. Silence loomed over them like a smog. Francis couldn't feel his face. His heart beat so hard it hurt. Sweat beaded his forehead and he felt entirely unwell.

~~~

Here came the lies, the excuses. Or so he thought. However, Francis didn't say a word. The quiet went for so long that he was forced to break off the dramatics and turn to look at him. The Frenchman was just standing there with a stricken expression on his unfairly handsome face. "Nothing to say, Frog?" He spat, "You could at least squeak out an apology. A 'thank you' wouldn't hurt either since I've wasted a hell of a lot longer here than I bloody intended."   
      "Oui je suis désolé." He muttered, his cigarette burning up quickly. "Sorry, Angleterre. You can go now."   
      "Can I?" Could he? By god he wanted to but his feet weren't cooperating.   
      "Can't you?"   
      It was something in Francis' eyes. Something that he'd seen too often in his own. As much as he wanted to turn away, the longing and the agony in those bewitching baby blues entangled him. It was a magic he'd never been good at resisting despite the counter-curses and wards he put up against them. "We have a meeting." He reminded needlessly in an effort to escape. "Don't be late or Canada will spill his syrup."   
      Again he turned his back, but he still felt the pull of those damnable irises. They were crying 'save me' and 'help' but he couldn't even save his bloody self. His life was as bleak as Sherlockian London. What sunshine could he offer when he couldn't even part his own clouds?   
      Francis caught his hand as he headed for the door. "Arthur."   
      "What?" He snarled, ripping his fingers free of that abhorrent touch with such vehemence that he felt immediately guilty. That fact alone was enough to push his frustration into the red zone. He just wanted to get away. "I can't hel-"  
      "Who have you told?" Francis inquired in a tone as hushed and cold as snowfall.   
      His heart beat faster. France suddenly looked formidable and, as always, it made him feel things he didn't want to. "No one."   
      "Haven't had ze time?"  
      "I just chose to keep my mouth shut." He hissed, "But if that doesn't satisfy you I'm sure Alfred can make a catchy YouTube video all about it. The story of your pansy-ass sulk festival will be viral in minutes. How's that?"  
      "Zat zounds more like you."

 

  
      The attitude he was receiving made it immensely easier to walk away and he was as thankful as his temper allowed him to be. "Casse-toi." He barked, leaving his guilt in the doorway as he left.


	4. Whoa, Bro

 

It was good to feel something other than grief, even if it was frustration. As Arthur stormed off, he finished off his cigarette with a long, angry inhale. Why did it have to be England? He even trusted Spain over that bushy-browed warlock. It was hard to tell what sort of blackmail he'd have to endure.  
      Wandering into his kitchen he pulled a hunk of cheese from the refrigerator and a knife from the drawer. Was hiding even worth it? Everyone already thought he was a pansy. Did it really matter if everyone knew? It was a personal issue to be sure, but if Arthur was going to use it against him-   
No. It didn't matter whether Arthur ran his spell-spouter or not. Mattie knew. Gilbert knew. His secret was out. Well, at least one of them, the one that would surely cover up for the other. That was a relief, at least. Still, a sense of shame and failure still lingered on the outskirts of his resolve, waiting to fill the cracks should his mentality begin to shatter again.  
      God, he was everywhere. He didn't know how to feel. Again, he just wanted to sleep. It wasn't a good idea, hell, it was hardly an idea at all. It was more an urge that his body followed before a coherent thought could even form. Throwing one arm across the table he rested his head atop it. His eyes closed without struggle and for a moment he lay awake, his thoughts filled with fuzzy memories of arms around him and sweet French spoken in a lilting brogue.   
      Wait. His consciousness stirred. Wait. Wait. He pushed off the table his eyes only half-open. Mon Dieu. Arthur had stayed the night. His heart sped up and he staggered drowsily back to his bedroom, memories surfacing along the way. England had been in his room. That dream- could it have been real?  
Surely not. Arthur didn't have a sweet bone in his body. There was no way he'd ever hold him like that, ever comfort him. He was just confused. All of these delusions, these feelings could be blamed on his muddled state of mind.   
     Arthur's soft words whispered in his soul, both a comfort and a taunt. " _Est-ce mieux, grenuoille?"_  
No. It wasn't better. As much as he wanted those arms around him, those hands on him, it wasn't better. Forgiveness was hard to find when their bodies were the battlefield. Even if there was a sliver of want, the faintest shadow of love laying between them it stood no chance against the great running rivers of blood that did the same.   
     The front door crashed open.  
     "Oi, Francy-pants!" Prussia bellowed like a battle -cry. "I hope jou're wearing clothes zis time! Mien thoughtful birdie sent ze awesome me to pick jou up so let's go!"   
     He'd never been so thankful for Prussia's ego in his life. Gilbert was distraction at it's finest. "Oui, oui, I'm coming." He called, pulling on his favorite pair of boots and dabbing on a bit of his favorite cologne. "Did you break ze door, mon cher?"  
     "Nein. Just ze wall behind it."

 

Arthur didn't even try to contain his scowl. That idiot Frog had made it on time. He'd come in with Prussia, laughing and chirping in his sissy accent like he'd no knowledge of misery. Now the bloody baguette-sucker was sitting in the seat next to him, smelling sweet and smiling dreamily as Germany barked orders like a cat hacking on a hairball.    
      What the hell was this meeting even for? The last _seven_ had all been completely useless. Italy was jabbering on about pasta, Russia was basking in his weird aura and Spain hadn't even bothered to show up. Japan was flipping through images on his camera while China dozed shamelessly on his panda. Prussia was whispering things that made Canada blush and that damned Alfred was throwing hand-signals at him from across the table. Whatever the American was trying to say, he was certain he didn't care.  
      After Germany had one final, futile shouting spree the meeting came to an end. Arthur spared no time in leaving. Usually he'd stay to bicker with Francis for a while, but it wouldn't be the same now. He'd never admit it, but the fact that France was just as weak as he was disappointed him. Every since he was small he'd looked up to the other nation. Of course the guy blubbered and begged once and a while and had that phase with the dresses, but Arthur had never really believed he was as fragile as he acted. Now he didn't know how to handle him. He'd been cruel before, thrown hateful comments like javelins and brandished insults like a rapier. But that was because he thought Francis could take it. He enjoyed hurting him because he also secretly enjoyed being hurt back. He liked the attention, the playfulness of it.   
      "Iggy!" Alfred called out from behind him and he just managed to duck before the other nation threw his arm around his shoulder.   
      "Not now. I'm already missing tea time." He dismissed, picking up his pace.   
      "Oh come on." The American sighed, "What happened last night dude? Peter said you didn't come home."  
      "Bugger off."  
      "France sure cheered up. Did you guys finally do it?"   
      He saw red. "Excuse me? What the bloody hell are you talking about? There's no way that me and that wussy rose-smelling pervert would ever do _that_! You've been spending too much time with Japan!"  
      "Woah, bro, no need to get your brows in a twist. Let's go get drunk tonight!"  
      "No."   
      "Come on man, you'll stay the night with France but you can't go out with me for a few hours?"   
      His temper sent his senses fleeing. He grabbed hold of the lapels of that stupid bomber jacket and slammed the obnoxious country against the wall. He raised a fist and Alfred's eyes flashed with hurt. In the back of his mind he heard himself shouting to stop but all his pent up frustrations had finally sent him over. His knuckles rocketed forward only to be stopped mere centimeters from Alfred's nose.   
      Long fingers roped his wrist and pulled him a few steps back. "It'z a bit too late to spank 'im now, mon cher." France intervened in a friendly tone. "It's about tea time, oui?"   
      Again France had stopped him from striking America. He pulled away. "Wanker." It was all he could say, even when he should be saying 'thank you'. Just like that time, Francis had stopped him from doing something he'd have regretted later. Still, it didn't take the sting out of the wound. His pride did not forgive so easily.   
      "Wait bro,"   
       Francis snagged Alfred from by the shoulders as he retreated. "Onhonhon~ Amérique did I hear you say you we're going out tonight?"   
       He didn't stay to hear the end of the conversation.


	5. Handy Man

 

Francis couldn't sleep. He'd stayed out with Mattie and Alfred long enough to convince them both he was fine. When Matthew had phoned Russia to smack-talk his hockey team he'd slipped quietly away. Neither of the boys seemed to mind and he was glad to escape before the drunk olympics started.   
     Now he was sitting on the balcony in the chair Arthur had been occupying that morning, halfway through a pack of cigarettes and nearing the bottom of a bottle of wine. This was the better part of his dark moods, the end stretch within which he usually filled with alcohol and tobacco. Drunk and hoarse from smoke was better than weak and weepy.   
He felt a little bored, actually.   
      Reaching for his phone he exited out of all the unread text messages from Gil and Tony and scrolled through his contacts. His finger only hesitated over Arthur's name for a moment before falling gently over the phone icon. It rang four times and then there was a gentle cursing and a drowsy groan that set his insides aflame. 'Angleterre?" He cooed into the receiver. "Dormus tu?"   
       " _Of course I'm bloody sleeping, twat."_ The Brit mumbled, "What do you want?"   
        "You were going to 'it Alfred today. Why?"   
        " _I'm hanging up."_  
        "Ne pas."   
        " _It's three in the bloody morning. What the hell do you mean 'ne pas?'._ " Arthur hissed, " _If it hadn't been for that damned rabbit I wouldn't have answered in the first place!"_  
        He smirked into the phone. "What rabbit, Angleterre?"   
        " _Mm. The... greenish one..."_  
        "Arthur, are you falling asleep?"   
       _"Francis..."_  
        A shudder shot down his spine at the sound of his name spoken in such a soft tone. "Pouvez-vous parler le français dans votre sommeil , mon petit lapin?"  
       _"Don't...call me bunny...idiot."_  
       "Why were you fighting with Alfred?"   
      _"Why did you stop me?"_  
        "You'd 'ave regretted it."   
        _"So?"_  
        "That's why."  
        _"This is absurd. Why are you calling me?"_  
        "I couldn't sleep."   
        _"What about your pills?"_  
        "Iz zat what I should do then? You seemed unhappy about it zhis morning."   
      _"Since when...did it matter..."_  
       "What?"  
       _"Mhm... Did it matter...what I thought?"_  
       "1707, was ze start of it, I believe."  
      Arthur didn't reply. The soft sound of his breathing told Francis he'd fallen asleep. Smiling sadly, he turned the phone on speaker mode and sat it on the arm of his chair. "Bonne nuit, mon amor." He chuckled bitterly around the butt of his cigarette.

~~~

_Mon amour_. Arthur tried to keep his breathing even. He knew Francis was still listening. It wasn't the first time the Frenchman had called him drunk and rambling, nor the first time he'd not hung up when he should have. In fact, over the years, this had grown into a strange habit, an unspoken pact between them. He couldn't remember where it'd started or why but he could safely assume that the idea had been alcohol-fueled. It seemed that, as long as it was after three a.m., both of them engaged in this sort of odd ceasefire. It staved off the loneliness for a time, and neither of them ever spoke of it outside of the actual happening.   
       What was a first, however, was the soft 'my love' whispered like a prayer in the silence between them. In light of last night's sobbed confession, the words should not have effected him the way they had. It wasn't like homosexuality was unheard of amongst countries and honestly after living so long the physical aspect of their bodies hardly mattered at all.  Hell, Hungary had spent most of her childhood thinking she was a man and France had danced about in dresses more times that he could count. China looked damn good in a kimono. That pretty face made it very hard to slap a definite label on him at times. It was their souls that seemed to matter now, if they were even afforded souls...  
         Francis coughed softly and brought him out of his thoughts. He wanted to end the call but then the Frenchman would know he'd been awake. All of this was too much for him. He didn't like to feel things. Shifting in his sheets he tried to get comfortable around the bulge in his pajama bottoms. Thinking about feelings- about Francis- always did this to him and it was almost more shame than it was worth to relieve himself of it. Almost.   
But this was safe... The only way he could ever act on that disgusting want. Francis was here and yet miles away. He could listen to his breathing while not being forced to look at him. He could allow himself to relax without completely escaping the focus of his lust.   
      Cowardice at it's dirtiest.   
      The man on the other end of the line sounded like he was packing a fresh carton of cigarettes. Arthur pretended it was something else entirely. The Frenchman sighed and his mind turned it into a moan. His imagination caught fire and burned as hot as his body. It was almost a game now, keeping his breathing calm and quiet as he slid a hand into his pants.


	6. Black Sorcery Sundays

 

 

 

~5 months later ~

     It had been a long time since he'd heard from Francis outside of meetings and he was glad to find that it didn't bother him. They weren't friends, so it didn't matter. He'd actually been spending peaceful days sipping tea and memorizing new spells. Not a thing was wrong. Hell, he'd even checked the 'attending' box on the RSVP for Alfred's birthday party for the very first time. Of course, he hadn't sent it out yet, as he didn't like committing, but he felt that it was a decent start.   
     He smirked at the cold basement floor and took a bit of chalk from his breast pocket. Giving the diagram in his book one last glance, he began drawing the newest addition to his repertoire of magic circles. This one was especially intricate and Mint Bunny was hovering over his shoulder like a concerned mother.    
      "It could be dangerous." The rabbit warned needlessly. "You don't know it well enough."  
      Obviously it was dangerous. No magic was ever performed without risk. He rather liked the thrill of it. "Quiet." He muttered, finishing the last few strokes in the design. "It'll be fine."   
      "Do you even know what it will do?" M.B. chattered, annoyed.   
      "Can't be anything worse than summoning Russia again." He snorted, lighting his colored candles.   
       As usual, just before he was about to do something he was rather excited about, his damnable cell phone began to buzz violently beside him. Francis' stupidly handsome face appeared across the touchscreen and he mused briefly about how the hell the photo had gotten there before hitting the ignore icon. He'd have to remember to keep better tabs of the thing while at meetings. Knowing Francis he was lucky he'd not ended up with a dick pic instead.   
       "Arthur-"  
       "I will conjure something to eat you if you utter one word of reprimand." He wanted his imaginary rabbit. "I'll call him back later."   
       This seemed to appease the creature and it sank back into the shadows and joined the fairies in a sort of sulk. Arthur didn't pay them any heed. Now unhindered, he began chanting the recently learned spell in a timbre he reserved specifically for casting. It hummed through him like the power the circle exuded sending him on a high not unlike that of drugs.   
Goosebumps broke out across his flesh and he closed his eyes as the candles flickered. All the things in his life that he had no control over, everything that had ever hurt him was now laid waste by this energy, this all consuming dark that came at his beck and call. It was not without price, however and before he could complete the enchantment his nose began to bleed and white spots ate at his vision.   
      "It's too much for you!" The fairies were screeching, but he paid them no heed. The blood would feed the magic. He leaned over the circle to allow it to drip within.   
     Dark shadows began dancing along the rim like the eager lick of flames and he was drawn in, fodder for the madness of their hunger. Whatever storm he'd conjured, whatever beast, he could not wait to feel the wind, the teeth. _Let it be worth it._ Let it be worth the toll on his body. Let it be worth the hours spent studying. Let it be worth the blood.   
     The hearing in his left ear went as the drum burst inside. Vertigo threatened to end his efforts but he pressed on. He'd felt worse pain. He'd been more disoriented. If this venture succeeded then-   
     A gruesome hand appeared, reaching up from the depths of sorcery. With it soon came a dark, twisted form bedecked in long veins of flickering red, like the desperate flash of life drawn from coals by a sudden breeze. The thing's face was featureless save for a long, toothy mouth that spread wide in a hungry grin. It snickered, turning to him with an eyeless gaze that burned nonetheless. "Strange for one such as you to call upon me." It hissed in a voice that grated on his good ear. "What do you seek that you do not have already? Better, what price do you seek to pay for it?"   
_What price? Not a genie. Not a Jinn. A demon._ He knew this would happen eventually, and yet, now faced with the reality of it, he cowered. "I don't want anything."   
     "Such a lie. What a lie. Lie. A lie." It chattered, slinking about the circle like a caged beast. "Little nation, what is it? You summon me for fun? Is it fun? Fun. Does it amuse you? Do I?"   
     "I don't need anything. I- only wanted to see you."  
     "Curious?" It chortled, "Grown bored with your centuries of life? I can end them."   
     "No. Go back. It was a mistake."   
     "Yes." It agreed. "If you do not supply me with a purpose I will be free to run amok."   
     A purpose. He needed to ask something of it. But what? Now his desire seemed frivolous to ask of a demon. A Sprite maybe, a genie certainly, but a demon- no. Never. "What is it that you can do?"  
     "Bad things. Hurtful things. Accidents that aren't accidents. Wish death of me, sate me. Do it. I'll ask nothing of you if my purpose is to kill."   
     Well, M.B. was certainly never going to let him hear the end of this one. "I don't want to kill anyone." He should have, but he didn't. Not truly. "Can you kill a feeling? An emotion?"   
     "Freewill is out of my claws." It growled, "If the feeling is a true one, none can suppress it."   
If it was true? "And if it isn't?"  
     "Not true? If it is untrue what does it matter? Lies are lies. It will already be of little consequence."   
    Crap. If this thing couldn't stop his weird feelings for France then it did him very little good. "I- don't have anything to ask of you then."   
    "Then I am unbound." It breathed, a three-toed foot sweeping out to smear the chalk lines that had kept it at bay thus far. "Thank you, stupid little fool. For my freedom I will spare your life."   
    "N-no wait-" he snapped, but it was too late to do anything even had he known what. The demon fell into an inky smog and rose like steam, gone from sight in a matter of moments.   
     He fell back on his ass and put his head in his hands. That had probably been the worst summoning he'd ever done. Even Russia would have been better. Hell, he'd have offered him a cup of tea before calling up a demon. Too late now. He'd unleashed a monstrosity upon the world. Perfect. What terror would it cause?   
    Mint Bunny hopped up beside him, small furry face scowling. "Now what?"  
    He groaned and lay back on the hard concrete. "Call Italy and ask to borrow his Pope, I guess."

 


	7. Whiskey over Wine

**

Arthur was in the middle of watching exorcism videos on YouTube when Francis called again. With a soft sigh, he answered without the protest all his imaginary friends had been expecting. "What do you want, bloody frog?"  
      "Eyebrows! It's ze awesome me!" Prussia shouted, "Vhat are jou doing? Francy-pants is being totally unawesome."  
      He could hear crashing and a frenzy of grunts and growls in the background. Glass shattered somewhere and he thought he heard Spain crying entreaties. "What's going on?"  
      "Vell, ve were all out having an awesome time! An zen zis prick Turkey showed up and everyzing vent to hell. Zis bar is ruined!"  
      "Wait- Is France in a bar fight?"  
      "Ja. Jou need to come stop him."  
      "What do you mean? Stop him? Isn't he trying to run for the hills?"  
      "No, zats ze problem! He's gone all nutsy-cookoo."  
      "Surely the awesome Prussia can handle one wimpy Frenchman." He sighed, though by the sounds of it, that was not the case.  
      "As jou vell know, ze awesome me is not as strong as I once vas..."  
      The admission of Prussia's weakness caught him off guard and the fact that France was participating in a fight had him heading for the door before his good sense caught up. "Where are you?"  
      Prussia then rattled off a set of detailed coordinates that were suspiciously nearby. He could only assume that their plan had been to drop Francis on him before the night had ended anyway. He didn't have time to be annoyed. His thoughts were racing elsewhere as he walked as quickly as a gentleman could without losing his class. The only things that ever set Francis off was the ruination of his favorite clothing and talk of the Second World War. A torn hem he could deal, but if Turkey had been fool enough to spew drunken taunts about  
France's history, well... Francis would likely not be Francis when he arrived.  
        None of them liked that particular war dredged up, but something had snapped in Francis during that time. Having been fractured, turned against himself, and occupied had not been easy on his mentality. Arthur had not forgotten the half-crazed Frenchmen he and Alfred had found the day they'd gone to liberate him. He picked up his pace.  
       The door to the pub was dangling by one hinge and the police lingered outside looking baffled as the owner wept into her hands. Leave it to France to wait until he was in someone else's house to throw a tantrum. A bottle of half finished whiskey zipped by his head as he entered and Prussia and Spain waves to him from their place behind the bar. Turkey was on his back in the midst of broken tables and spilt liquor. His hands were around Francis' throat while the Frenchmen straddled his waist,  one hand latched in Turkey's hair and the other pounding mercilessly at his face.   
       "That's quite enough!" Arthur bellowed, stalking across the ruined room and slapping Francis upside the head. "What in the bloody hell are you thinking? Your bosses are not going to be very happy with all of this nonsense!"  
        "Saving you again." Turkey snickered around the blood running from his mouth. "Pathetic."  
        France raised his fist once more, this time with a shard of broken bottle clasped tightly within. Arthur caught his wrist. "Je dis que ça suffit!" He snarled, wrenching the blond off of the masked country. He shook him violently by the arm and swept a hand through the air, showcasing the devastation bed caused. "Regardez ce que vous avez fait!"  
      Turkey heaved himself up from the mess and chuckled. Francis stiffened but didn't move. Spain and Prussia began to approach but Arthur held up his hand to stop them. "Don't crowd him." He hissed, "Who bound him?"  
      Prussia furrowed his brows and looked at Spain. "Vhat?"  
      He lifted Francis' arm and revealed the purple and black bruises around his wrist. It was obvious that they were no new adornment. "Who did this?"  
      Spain shook his head and Prussia looked at Turkey, who shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets. "Not my fault he's all talk." He snorted, "Good luck England, he's more your type them mine anyway."  
      Francis reclaimed his arm and shakily retrieved his soiled jacket from the floor. "Sorry for ze mess, Angleterre. I'll have it fixed."  
      Arthur balked as the Frenchman began to follow Turkey out. "Where did you think you're bloody going?" He snapped.  
      Francis sounded uncertain when he answered and it was easy to tell he wasn't yet settled into his right mind. "Home?"  
      "No worries England, we'll take him." Spain said, "Sorry about all of this."  
      "You two idiots aren't taking anyone home but yourselves." Arthur declared, his temper muddling his logic. "Do not breathe a word of this to anyone or I'll put a curse on the both of you."  
      "Ja, no problem. Mattie vould flip out." Prussia agreed easily. "He vould vithhold my pancakes! Totally unawesome."  
      "Are you sure? We can take him Arthur. He's-"  
      "Oh don't bloody act like you weren't gonna dump him on me anyway!" He spat, shoving at France's shoulder, urging him forward toward the door.  
      Turkey was talking to the officers outside, having somehow gotten them laughing. They stopped when they stepped out. "I'll have this all paid for." Arthur announced. "Would you please take us back to my house."

Francis stumbled in the doorway and Arthur was forced to jerk him roughly in order to save him from toppling the coatrack. "Don't do to my house what you did to that pub, damn stupid frog." He didn't bother making the man take off his boots nor did he allow him to shed his jacket, he simply prodded him toward the bathroom. "Clean yourself up. I'll bring you a change of clothes."  
       Francis leaned heavily in the lavatory's doorframe and gave him a pitiable look. "Arthur."  
       The sound of his name softened his demeanor a bit. "What?" He spat, annoyed by how easily he was undone.  
        In reply, Francis lifted the large hand he'd been holding over his side, revealing a wadded red bit of cloth that may once have been a very nice ascot. As it fell away blood gushed anew from the large angry injury it'd been concealing. The man would certainly need stitches if not a hospital. "Why didn't you say something earlier!" He shouted, "What we're you even thinking? Have long have you been shagging Turkey? Why are you such a bloody moron!?" That third one hadn't been meant to be spoken but he was too irritated to bother berating himself over it.  
       Those blue eyes blinked down at him, clouded and slow moving. "J'ai besoin de vous..."  
       Arthur's heart beat a little faster.  "Well, of course you need me, wanker. Look at you! You're a disgrace." It was hard to keep his tone harsh when Francis' face was paling and blood was pooling on his hardwood. As much as he hated it, it wasn't the time to be tsundere.  
        "Peter!" He shouted into the dark hallway, pretty sure the little bugger was still lingering someplace. He had a lot of empty space in his large home so it wasn't unusually for the boy to stay months at a time only being seen now and then. Unfortunately there was no answer. He'd have to tend Francis' injuries alone. "You'll need to lay down. Come with me."  
The instruction was followed shakily. "Angleterre..."  
         Arthur slid beneath the other man's arm without any further prompting and accepted most of his weight, bloodying his own clothes in he process. "I could call an ambulance if you'd rather someone else fix you up."  
         "Non." Was the soft response.  
He hadn't expected any different. "You told Sadiq that you have a fear of being restrained, didn't you?"  
"Non."  
        "Why?" He wasn't sure why he felt he need to press the issue, why he even cared, but his mouth was running before his mind could catch up. If you were dating then-"  
"Non."  
"He forced you?" The thought caused a hot, bubbling rage in his gut.  
Francis sagged as they approached the guest bedroom, his near swoon making the inquiry temporarily irrelevant. The man let out a soft noise of protest as he heaved him onto the mattress, but didn't speak. Arthur didn't waste any time.  
       He stripped Francis of his shirt without ceremony and ordered him to hold the torn clothing to his wound while he ran for the first aid. It took him longer than he'd have liked to track it down and when he returned his patient had fallen into a sort of doze, the hand tasked with staunching the blood doing it's job very poorly.  
       "Come on now Francis." He scolded gently, sanitizing his needle. "It probably would be better for a professional to do this."  
        "N-one embroiderss bett'r zen you, Angleterre." The Frenchman slurred with a smirk, throwing his right forearm over his eyes. "Bezides, you've done zis plent' of times."  
         True. He'd treated many, many, many wounds during his long existence, Francis' on more than one occasion. "Just don't make a fuss." He sighed, "I'm starting."  
         The needle pierced the rent flesh and Francis stiffened but did not squeal or squirm. There were none of his usual theatrics and it left Arthur wondering if he even really knew France at all. Which was the real one? The happy, perverted moron he'd grown up with or this- this morose, miserable man before him now who lay straight-faced and sullen as his wounded skin was relentlessly jabbed and stretched? The sheen of sweat across his pale body was the only indication that he felt the pain at all.  
         Rinsing the stitches, he paused to admire his neat work only for a moment before patting the wound dry and applying the ointment and bandage. The other cuts and bruises were minor and he was satisfied with simply rinsing them clean. His hand strayed a little too heavily across a certain few ribs in the process, garnering the first reaction from Francis' during the process.  
          "Brisé." He snarled, snatching his arm to stay his ministrations.  
          "If it's broken then I'll need to bind it." Arthur stated gently, eyes catching again those black and blue marks bedecking the man's wrist.  
           "Non. Leave be."  
           "Look here Frog-" The words fled as he was taken by the collar and drug forward with more strength than he'd expected the other man to have. His heart journeyed to his throat and blocked any protest he may have uttered as he was forced onto the mattress and brought mere centimeters from the older nation's face.  
           "I zed leave it be."  
           The bitter scent of whiskey reached him and he simply stared at the man who now held him captive in more ways than one. What in the bloody hell had convinced this wine-loving weeny to consume such a furious drink? It was no wonder he was so ill-tempered. "Let me go."  
      "Ask me in French." The man demanded, the effort of keeping him where he was while so wounded causing his breath to come up short. Arthur told himself that it was because of that, that he conceded.  
      "Laisse-moi."  
      With a weak grunt the man did as he was asked and turned his face. "Je le regrette, Angleterre... Je regrette de vous combattre. Je regrette de ne pas vous laisser me tuer."  
      _I regret ever fighting you. I regret not letting you kill me._ The words made Arthur feel sick. He didn't want to hear any more. He couldn't do this, couldn't look down at this crumbling creature he'd once so sought to be. He couldn't face this stranger he'd sworn he knew.  
         Having leave to pull away, he did so. Giving the other nation his back as he sat on the bedside, seething. Was this all because of him? Because Francis- loved him? Why? Why would any one let something like that destroy them? Surely not. It couldn't be true. No one would be so utterly desperate for the affections of such a worthless thing. He wasn't anything to mourn over. And yet, here they were, having no more than an inch between them though it felt like oceans.  
         "You're too old for tantrums like this, you twat." He muttered, rising and grabbing a blanket from the closet. Before he could think better of it he crawled into bed and threw it haphazardly across both of them. "Whatever Turkey did to you, whiskey can't fix it."  
In answer, the man turned to wrap his body around him despite the pain of his injuries; Arthur remained still as he did so. He heard the ragged breathing, shuddered beneath the hot breath at his nape and felt the wetness of tears in his hair, but he didn't recoil or flee. He made no issue of it, asked no questions of himself as to why he was letting this happen. Closing his eyes, he simply allowed the warmth the other man brought to his otherwise cold existence be datum enough.

      For now.


	8. Try Me, Chap

 

 

_By any means necessary._

      Those had been his boss' words but, God save him, why did it have to be Sadiq? Turkey was a decent country and a fine friend, but as a lover... The guy enjoyed things Francis had only ever read about and even on printed paper they had disturbed him. Having been asked to perform them had made him sick.  
      He'd never meant for things to go so far. Never. As much as he like talking about it, sex was not something he took lightly. It was something he didn't want to ever have to regret, but the first thing he felt when he awoke was shame. Pain was close on it's heals however and he was thankful for it. The discomfort chased away everything else.  
      The mattress he was laying on was bare, but he was covered with a thick comforter with intricate embroidery that was strangely soothing when rubbed between his fingers. Arthur had made this. He didn't need to ask in order to recognize his work. A smile tried to touch his lips as he sat up but the sharp pain in his side crippled it. He traces the neat row of stitches where Turkey had got him with a broken bottle and then shifted gingerly, deliberate whether it was his third or fourth rib left rib that was broken. His boss was going to be mad as hell, and Sadiq's would be no ray of sunshine either. If they knew. Maybe they hadn't heard. That would be a sizable mercy he wasn't sure Lady Luck owed him.  
      Rising slowly, he noticed a glass of water on the nightstand. It had been put there recently as the ice within was still substantial. Beside that, on the antique chair beneath the window, sat a pile of clean clothes. His boots, now cleaned and polished, sat at it's feet. It was bittersweet. To know and to see the evidence of Arthur's true nature and still have to bear his constant denial of it was maddening.  
      Changing his clothes was a torment he willing subjected himself to, a penance of sorts for his recent foolishness. He was surprised to find the pants fit, as Arthur was at least a head shorter than him. The shirt made him grin wide as it was sporting the label of an old punk rock band that Arthur would never admit to liking. The younger nation was surely giving himself away a lot lately. Perhaps there was hope yet.  
      Grimacing as he glanced over his shoulder to check the door, he breathed deep the smell of the fabric before pulling it over his head with a hiss and a groan. It was definitely his fourth rib. After battling  a bout of nausea, he forced down the cool water and headed for the door to seek his host. It would have been better to have sought instead the front door, but he longed to hear Arthur's voice, even if it would be spitting insults.  
      He found the Englishman in his usual spot. Sitting with saucer in his lap and book on the arm of his chair, Arthur was nestled in the library looking every bit a part of the room as the books and their high shelves. The sun coming in from the window colored his hair like rich honey. His usual scowl was absent, replaced by a serene and thoughtful expression that reminded Francis of the eager youth he'd known long ago. It seemed a shame to disturb him.  
       "Are you hungry?" The Brit inquired in a tone nearly as quiet as the gathering of dust. His hand motioned to a plate of uneaten breakfast but his eyes never left his tea.  "I didn't make it."  
       "Onhonhon~ You'll never grow any taller if you don't eat, mon cher." He crooned, trying not to let his injuries hinder his swag as he crossed the room. Despite having no appetite he took a scone from the plate and sat down in the chair opposite the other nation. The action was carried without thought to his wounds and he paled a shade as the pain turned his stomach.  
      Arthur's knowing eyes glanced up at him briefly and then shifted their attention to the view outside the window. "Spain dropped your phone off this morning." He stated absently, motion to the end table. "It's there."  
      He didn't make a move to retrieve it. He didn't particularly care for the thing in the first place. The knowledge that Tony and Gilbert had probably taken dozens of inappropriate selfies before returning it didn't aid in his want of it either. Letting his head rest against the chair's cushioned back, he nibbled his scone in silence.  
     The Brit went back to reading. The warm sunlight and the periodic whisper of turned pages was nearly enough to put Francis back to sleep. It'd been a long time since he'd been this content. If every day could be just like this moment, he felt he could keep on living without Arthur's affection. Just this amicable silence would be enough. His thoughts began to blur after a while and time passed slowly. Arthur got up now and then to choose a different book but he never spoke or made any attempts to rouse him from the doze he was slipping in and out of.  
      It felt like home. Natural. As if this was how it was supposed to be. If only it were true. Like a harbinger of fate, the doorbell shrieked his demise and he knew then that his rest was over. It didn't matter who awaited on the stoop outside, Arthur would throw up his shields again as soon as the third party entered. In hopes that the Brit would ignore the caller, he pretended not to have heard the shrill chime.

~~~

That doorbell was a pestilence, the shrill cry of it ruining the peaceable silence. Arthur refrained from slamming his book closed for the sake of the Frenchman sleeping across from him. The bell sounded again and he rose with murder in his heart. Every time. Every single time he and Francis were together without pretense or facade, something interrupted. It was as if the universe was set against letting them simply sit in the quiet and bask in the rare radiance of calm. Or maybe it was Fate being merciful, saving them from the looming of foolish thoughts and wants.   
      Either way, his mood was foul as he answered the door and became fouler still when he saw who filled the entryway. "What do you want?" He snapped up at Turkey, though he could surmise the reason easily enough by the sizable bouquet of roses he carried.  
      "I'm sorry for last night." The taller man began, "I've already paid the pub owner and helped with clean up."   
      The man set a booted foot inside and Arthur barred the entry with an arm in the doorway. "He's resting." He hissed, something deep within him snapping.   
      "This isn't something you should entangle yourself in, Arthur." Sadiq suggested in a tone that was meant to intimidate. It failed. "There's no need to involve emotions. It's all just business, mind your own."  
      "I'm well aware of the childish fussing going on between your bosses, but an ally's blood was shed in my house. That makes it my business and I'll be glad to discuss it formally with you at the next world meeting."   
      "Don't be so stubborn. After everything is smoothed over you can have him back. It's not like I wanted him to begin with." The masked man huffed, "I'm just doing what I'm told and unless you want the relations between our bosses to sour as well you'll let me see him."  
      Threats? Demands? The very fucking idea had his temper boiling. Still, he swallowed his seething and tried his hardest to remain as gentlemanly as one could be whilst retaliating with politics.  
      "Leave now or I can't promise that my vote for acceptance into the EU will be in your favor."   
      "Like you have any control over that, you little bitch-whipped prick."   
      And there went his class. "Leave." He snarled, reaching for the flintlock pistol he kept in the hall table. "When Francis leaves my house you'll be free to do as you wish, but so long as he's here you'll let him be."   
      Turkey sighed deeply. "Look, last night was a mistake. I was angry with Greece and France was in this shitty sulk. The whiskey got to me, that's all. It won't happen again. You're taking this all way too personally."  
      It was personal. It was extremely, unendingly, infuriatingly personal. "Remove yourself from my sight, Sadiq."   
      "Hey-"  
      Thoughtlessly, Arthur interrupted the man's entreaty with a gun aimed at his face. All sense in him was shrieking warnings but he couldn't hear over the twisted, gruesome voice in his head begging for him to pull the trigger. He felt the control slipping, felt that familiar itch welling up, threatening to drag him back under the cool black water of  his ever-pooling madness. "Go."  
     "You wouldn't start a war over that useless wine-sucker." Sadiq snickered. "Don't be crazy."  
     Oh, he was a fair hand at crazy. A smile danced across his lips. "Try me, _chap_."  
     There was moment of heavy silence wherein Sadiq must have seen the glimmer of bloodlust in his eyes.  "Fine." The older country growled, retrieving his foot from the threshold. "Tell him to charge his damn phone."   
      "Not likely." He snorted, shutting the door and then leaning heavily upon it. Had he- had he just pulled a gun on Turkey? What the bloody hell was wrong with him? And over France?! His heart raced, his hands shook. What was most frightening was he fact that he was disappointed. Some sick part of him was dissatisfied with the fact that he hadn't pulled the trigger. He had not felt like this in a very long time.  
      "Are you alright, Angleterre?" Francis inquired, suddenly beside him as soft as a whisper. His long fingers were cold as they removed the antique weapon from his hands. "Arthur?"  
     "Shove off." He murmured, jerking away from the man's touch. "Stupid pain in the arse frog."   
     "You shouldn't have threatened him, mon cher." Francis breathed, "Not over me."   
     He snorted and averted his eyes. "As if I'd do something like that for a wanker like you. His attitude was just pissing me off."  
     "Arthur-"  
     Why was he so close? Did he look like he was going to swoon or something? "Why are you always getting into trouble?" He growled, pushing the other man roughly away unable to bear the tempting heat radiating off of him. "And why in the bloody hell does everyone call me when you do? I'm not your mother!"   
    "I don't ask zem to." Francis hissed, his injuries agitated by the shove. "And you could refuse."   
    His irritation only grew in the face of the truth. "Did your boss tell you to shag that prick or is that just how you negotiate?"   
    "It was not my intention," Francis snarled, "but better I wear this shame than they be forced into a war."  
    "Don't you have any pride?!" He bellowed back, unable to rationalize his upset, unwilling to recognize the great growth of verdant envy ensnaring his wits. "Where's your dignity?"  
    "What dignity!?" Francis snarled, fisting a hand in his collar and shoving him against the wall. "We've been dancing like trained bears for mortal masters all zis time. And for what? What's it for? Just to exist? To make zem money, to give zem power? Doezn't zat make us all whores, Arthur?"   
    "Francis-"  
    "Non," Pale and panting, the older nation leaned in close, "for once, don't zay anyzing."   
     Heart in his throat, and pulse pounding in his ear, Arthur waited, unable to struggle. He willed his hands to push the man away but they simply rose, shaking to his hips and lingered there, unsure. Francis' eyes fluttered closed and he moved forward suddenly. Arthur froze and then melted as the other man's forehead fell into his shoulder with a shaky sigh. "Je t'aime."


	9. Drapeau Blanc

     Arthur couldn't breathe. Those words suffocated him. They brought insecurities from their graves and dredged up every painful ghoul in his soul. No. He wasn't worthy of love. It wasn't a good idea. No. No. No. This couldn't happen. It was different to never acknowledge it, safe to let it lay dormant, but now Francis had said it. Francis had made it real.  It hurt. God, please no. He didn't want to feel this way.  
    "D-don't bloody say it out loud, you git." He whispered to hide the break in his voice. Suddenly the greatest battle he'd ever fought was this, the one against the agonizing and overwhelming want to return the words, to just let it all go, to blindly concede and allow things to go where they would.  "We can't."  
    Face still resting in in the crook of his neck, the older nation simply used his name as argument. "Arthur."  
    He cringed as the man's hot breath seared his every sense. Excuses came ready to repair his resolve and he latched to them, his only hope. It wasn't worth it. If there was war, if something happened that set their blades against one another, feigned hatred would be easier to bear. If he had to lose this man someday, loving him outright would be his ruin. In the end, they'd just be in more pain.  
    Despite his frantic rationalizing his traitorous body sent his hands up Francis' back to damn him with an embrace.  His trembling hands moved with a will he denied having control of, one delving into that blond mop he so admired and the other clutching almost desperately at the man's shoulder blade. "Please, don't do this."  
     "Which of us are you begging?" Francis inquired softly, at last looking up at him. The gaze was mind- shattering. It encompassed his every fiber, saw every lie.  
     "We can't!" He shouted, unable to escape the desperate sincerity in that crystalline glower. "There'll be more wars. Nations will fall. Everything... You could..."  
     Francis gripped his shoulders. "If we stay like zis, I'm already lost."  
     He knew it. The evidence was there in the circles beneath the man's eyes, the way his body had grown wane, the deep cold inside his irises that wailed of brokenness. He'd watched in silent horror as the man before him slowly declined, but he'd never entertained the idea that love of him was the cause. After all this time? After so much sin, so much blood... Surely he couldn't be the reason for France's slow fade.  
     "For god's sake Francis...this- it's entirely unreasonable."  
     "Oui." The man affirmed with a weak, bitter laugh. "Je sais."  
     "Then you- you also know that we can't possibly act on these feelings. We'd just get hurt."  
     "You've never hesitated to wound me before, so why now? If I am to be killed, let it be with kisses."  
     A blush bloomed across his cheeks and he turned his head to hide it. Only Francis could make something so utterly stupid sound so perfect. "I don't understand how you can put yourself through so much for someone else. It's bloody foolish."  
     His heart fluttered as at last Francis donned that true smile he'd secretly been missing. "You're as dense as your eyebrows zometimes, mon amour."  
      The insult didn't sting. How could it when the Frenchman's touch seemed to heal all ailments? He had to escape, didn't he? This was wrong and stupid and terrifying but he didn't budge. He wanted to stay right there. He wanted this. As much as he fought it, this is where he wanted to be. "Italy would be proud." He finally said, his soul swaying to the dirge of his obstinance.  
      Francis raised his brows. "Pourquoi?"  
     "Because-" Lifting his chin, he used the fingers still tangled in Francis' hair to pull their foreheads together and whispered against his lips. "ceci est mon drapeau blanc."  
      _This is my white flag._  
       
     ~Fin~

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did a Valentine's Day short as a sequel to this. It's way smuttier. Anyway, It's called La Saint Valentin and will be up shortly.


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